


Where The Heart Is

by nasadog



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cullen-Centric, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:44:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasadog/pseuds/nasadog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A familiar face arrives at Skyhold. Cullen Rutherford realises he is in love. Tiamat Lavellan gets drunk on suspicious ale.</p>
<p>or</p>
<p>The Story of How Cullen Rutherford Finally Got His Shit Together</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where The Heart Is

Cullen, drawn out on the table, his wits scattered across various documents. Fingered splayed over papers, some dripped with stray wax, cool to the touch.

“Is every one of them vying for your attention at once, Commander?”

His head, gilded gold, rises. Mahariel enters.

She is everything he remembers. There is her dark, silken hair, falling in a jagged knife-cut around her shoulders. Two uneven braids, one looped behind a sharp elven ear. Her skin is glowing bronze in the candlelight, unmarred even now. If the Archdemon couldn’t scar her, he considers, nothing would.

She is so unlike the Inquisitor.

Knowing him, her black eyes move to his shaking hands, and shine with what could be mirth. He had thought she was here to thank Lavellan for saving her dearest Alistair. She raises a single fine eyebrow.

“Ah- yes- but I suppose they could wait.” He lifts a palm to his neck, stretching out the ache there. “Have you spoken with the Inquisitor?”

“Lavellan? Yes, I believe we met before the Blight. I haven’t seen her since, however. What a pity. I was hoping you could tell me where she is?”

Admittedly, Cullen is star struck. Warden Mahariel – the Hero of Fereldan, who saved him from certain death at the Circle – sees through him, and he knows she does. 

Lavellan is asleep on his bed, where Dorian had carried her after a particularly fierce battle with three trolls and a bear. _To recover with adequate supervision_ n, he had declared, and had flicked his hand in dismissal. 

Cullen hadn’t put up much of a fight at the time, but now he wishes he had. The scrutiny of Mahariel, with no magic further than her skill with a bow, flays him open from the heart. 

This is when he realises he loves the Inquisitor. 

“U-up…” He stammers, under the impact of his own realisation. Mahariel takes her leave towards the ladder. 

Startling, Cullen follows. 

He hears Mahariel’s soft coo before he sets eyes on the form of Lavellan, undisturbed since the early hours of dawn, her white-gold hair splaying wildly, thick and unpinned (a rarity; he had hardly recognised her at first). Her thick-lashed eyes, large and round, are still closed against the harsh wintry sunlight of Skyhold. Mottled with freckles, her hair shining softly, pink lips parted with exhaustion; she is real and tangible and pure. Cullen’s breath catches, and he loves her. He loves her. 

And then he panics. 

She is so young. He is the same age as Mahariel, himself, and the difference between the two elves is clear as they stand alongside each other. Lavellan is a child to Mahariel. 

And she is strong, and steadfast. The kindness she has shown him she surely affords to everyone. She is their Inquisitor for a reason, and it is her duty to ensure the Inquisition and all its forces are working smoothly. It is her job. He is the Commander. Of course she would make his wellbeing a professional concern. 

And then there is the matter of him. He is broken. He is decayed and strung out, shattering bright blue from within, glass pieces splintered outwards. He is human and he is broken and he is not worthy of her; she is sunlight and warmth and youth, bright and promising. She is hope and he is what happens when hope has left. 

Not to mention that she is a mage, and she would be right to hate him. 

He excuses himself before she wakes, leaving Mahariel to tend to her with elven ointments and soothing touches. Cullen can offer neither. The last time they spoke, he had asked her to leave him alone. 

* * *

“Honestly? I’m terrified,” she had said, and Cullen – free of lyrium, full of the fresh bite of mountain air – had comforted her with words of strength and fortitude. He had spoken of their armies and their great strides, and had been satisfied.

And she had gone away again, and doubt started to creep back in. 

Rightfully he knows that she cares for him, at least a little. She tells him so whenever she sees his uncertainty. But she is terrified. She is a child and she is terrified. How can he ask her to love him when so much else is more important? 

Her life is at stake, and he is pining for company. 

He throws himself into his work. That, he knows, will please her. 

* * *

Alistair is worse for wear, and Cullen has never known Mahariel to be so silent. Where before she would move with ease, strength clear in her bare arms and arrows strapped to her back, she now stands rigid and pale, her weapons left in the Inquisitor’s quarters where Lavellan has let Alistair stay. Cullen does not think Mahariel could draw her bow today were she faced with the root of all darkspawn itself.

The Inquisitor, however, has been left without a room. She has slept on a cushioned sill in Dorian’s library, under his fond eye, for the past three nights. Cullen supposes there is kinship between the mages. After all, she does request his company on every mission. 

He can hardly blame her. Dorian makes for easy company. 

The Commander has not spoken to her – outside of the War Room – since that day on the ramparts. He does not see how Dorian stares at him, quizzical brows drawn tight with confusion. He does see how the Inquisitor’s shoulders sag when he speaks, wanting something more. 

_You disappoint her_ , he thinks, and vows to focus on his work. 

**Author's Note:**

> i was going to keep writing this all the way through my playthrough and post it at the end but i am attention seeking trash so i'll just have to update this every now and then. so, sorry for the disappointing length (i wish i could say that's the first time i've heard that sentence hahHAH GET IT) (shoot me)
> 
> this is nobody's fault particularly but nevertheless it's time for a few shoutouts. i'd like to dedicate every ounce of angst to my good friend becky, who secretly loves it, and thank anna for her contributions to drunk!lavellan. stay fresh to death x


End file.
